HAPPY JUICE

Tonight, as Baby-Ko finally settled down and drifted to sleep in my arms, I took my first (easy) deep breath of the week. Sitting in the dark, with Baby-Ko ‘s head now on my chest, I closed my eyes. What a week. Emotional. Exhausting. Relieving. It occurred to me that I hadn’t written or posted anything new all week. I like to think that I write humorous, light, and certainly candid posts… But, nothing "light" or fluffy came to me this week (with the exception of my new boredom with the Olympics and the fact that all I can think about is how Misty May and Kerry Walsh never get wedgies during their matches).   I’ve got no juice,  I thought.  It’s been zapped…

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Driving to the hospital on Tuesday morning was surreal. It was exactly 11 months from the day I went into labor with Baby-Ko. And to think that now, I'm driving to the hospital WITH my beloved baby, who I now KNOW and adore, was very strange. However, from beginning to end, Baby-Ko's spirit was so unbelievable. I don't know if all babies are as excited by hospital lights, beds, and doctors and nurses in blue as Baby-Ko was, but his amazement and joy in his new surroundings made the transition into surgery (for me at least) a lot more bearable.

Once Baby-Ko changed into his hospital gown (yes, they make pint size gowns and while I hope no one ever has to see their child in one, I must say, they are pretty damned cute), and his vitals were taken, it was time for the Pediatric Anesthesiologist to administer what they call "Happy Juice." It's like a fast acting Valium that "chills" the baby out and makes the separation from parents and transition into more anesthesia and surgery easier. We were told that it might make him wobbly and "drunk," and sure enough, after about 10 minutes, our little baby boy, was flying high. Knowing that in just a few minutes, he'd be taken away in the arms of a strange, but sweet nurse, back in to an operating room where I have absolutely no control over what is happening to my child or what of this experience is being stored in his subconscious, I held him in my arms. I kissed him. I smelled him. I told him mommy and daddy will be there as soon as he wakes up. I wanted him to feel comfortable and safe in every way.

As he sat in my arms, I started to read "Sam The Dog" and T-Ko captured this on our digital camera....

The answer to my question was “Sometimes. Every baby is different...."  Needless to say, the surgery went great. Thank god it was a routine, out-patient and minimally invasive procedure; Baby-Ko's recovering like a champ.  However scared I was, when I watch this video, the anxiety, the fear, the concern about Baby-Ko’s surgery completely melts away.  I’m reminded of his health and how perfect it really is when so many children are truly sick. I’m reminded how lucky I am to live in a city (and country) with such tremendous doctors and technology. I’m reminded of how much he looks like his Daddy. I’m reminded that it’s the little things that will always make him giggle. I’m reminded of his resilience and spirit. And THAT is THE happiest “juice” I can think of…

A "T" OF MY OWN

Well, what do ya know. I'm in to week FIVE of my four week diet. Whatevs. Shit happens. The good news is that I'm highly motivated now and I have actually lost a few pounds. The bad news is with the Olympics on all day and night, I feel like a sloth when I look at all these crazy ripped bodies. I mean, I don't want to be ripped like the freaky little gymnasts with voices like Minnie Mouse, or like the female swimmers (frankly, having shoulders that broad would really fuck up my style). But I WOULD like for one day in my life, just to know what it's like to have a riiiiiiiipped abdomen. One like Michael Phelps. Specifically, that PELVIS "T" that he has. He should win a gold medal just for that T. 

I know he spends like 8 hours every day swimming and training, but still, his daily diet is so off the charts, it's almost unfair.  I read today that his typical daily diet consists of:

Breakfast: Three fried-egg sandwiches loaded with cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, fried onions and mayonnaise. Two cups of coffee. One five-egg omelet. One bowl of grits. Three slices of French toast topped with powdered sugar. Three chocolate-chip pancakes.
Lunch: One pound of enriched pasta. Two large ham and cheese sandwiches with mayo on white bread. Energy drinks packing 1,000 calories.
Dinner: One pound of pasta. An entire pizza. More energy drinks.

Well, I may not have a T, but I have a T-Ko. And in my book, that's as good as a gold... or at least an entire pizza.

GOING FOR GOLD

When I got home from Whole Foods tonight, I found T-Ko and DH doubled over, laughing.  They had the Olympics on when I left and I figured that one of them had just made a crude joke about the synchronized divers.

"What's so funny?" I asked.

"J-Ko..." DH said with tears running down his face, "You've got to see this."

T-Ko rewinds the DVR and shows me a clip from Bob Costa's post breaks. He was covering the U.S. women's beach volleyball game against Japan from Sunday. 

"Watch, watch," T-Ko says. He turns the volume up as Bob tells how when Kerri Walsh went up for a block, her WEDDING RING came FLYING OFF. 

"Why is she wearing her wedding ring during a match?" I ask. The clip goes on and shows how when the match was over, a team of volunteers tediously searched through the 17,000 ton SAND court, trying to find her gold wedding band. 

"Where the hell is she?" I ask, wondering why Walsh, who was apparently more distraught over losing the ring than defending the block, wasn't on her hands and knees looking frantically for her beloved ring.  I would be going CRAZY trying to find it. The match is over! Unless she's competing in another event, doesn't it seem like she should be the one digging through sand?

What seems even crazier is that when volunteer Sung Zhendong did finally FIND the ring, (and he graciously returned it to her the following day), Walsh gave him an AUTOGRAPHED VISOR, some OLYMPIC PINS, and a PAT ON THE ASS.  A. Pat. On. The. Ass. Seriously??? That's it? I mean, I know the dollar isn't worth much these days, but how about a little reward or at least a photo opp? Nothing! I mean, Olympic friggin pins?! If they're anything like the kind that my mom bought me on the corner of Figueroa and Exposition during the 1984 Olympics from some guy hawking cheap chatchkes, I can tell you they're not worth much. 

I don't know. The Olympics are supposed to be made up of super heroes. People that break world records. Role models. GRACIOUSNESS.  I just think she could have shown a little bit more gratitude. "Kvel" over the guy if you know what I mean...

That said, I am now quite interested in Olympic Beach Volleyball. I thought that the swimmers had the best butts in Beijing, but the volleyball players definitely take the gold in this area....  

And with that, Mommy is soooooo dragging her ass to Tae Bo tomorrow. 

Without my ring on of course...